Breakable
by comptine
Summary: Some people mocked Arthur Kirkland for still believing in Santa even though he was turning eighteen. Francis Bonnefoy found other things to mock him for. FrUKAU


Written for the Secret Santa on the FrancexUK comm on livejournal. The request was "gakuen hetalia with a cliche christmas-couple scene, please? 8D"

* * *

**Breakable**

If there was one childhood fantasy that Arthur kept close to his heart despite already being at his final year at SPQR Academy, it was Saint Nick. Many years ago his parents had told him that the jolly man only existed in the goodness that came with the holiday season.

He didn't believe them.

His friends had told him that the red-suited man only existed in the hearts of girly-boys.

He didn't believe them.

His doctor had told him that Santa only existed in his warped mind as a vague attempt to get over the loss of his parents.

He didn't believe him.

No, Arthur Kirkland believed in Santa Claus. No more. No less. He had been mocked for it through middle school, but as time went on and his classmates grew older and tired of the same old teasing, they stopped. Even as Christmas season rolled around, there was only one casual joke. It wasn't even that good, just something about Arthur being an elf. Just as small.

Although most attributed the mocking fading to aging maturity, most knew that it was because in the first year of the Academy, Arthur had punched Gilbert Beilschmidt in the face, breaking his nose, after a joke about Arthur never growing a pair. Since then no one, not even Gilbert - whose nose still sat a bit crooked - had tempted the Brit's temper.

Well, not on the subject of Saint Nick at least.

"FRANCIS!" Arthur roared, throwing the door to their dorm open. He was huffing, face red with rage and embarrassment, one hand clenched into a fist, the other holding what appeared to be the English flag.

Looking up, the picture of wicked innocence, Francis quirked an eyebrow at the raging Englishman in their doorway. "Ah," he said, as if he hadn't heard Arthur storming along the hallway and burst into their room, "_Bonjour._"

"Don't pull that '_bon-fucking-jour_' shit with me frog." He threw the flag to the ground at the Frenchman's feet. Upon closer inspection, one would recognize the flag to actually be a pair of undergarments. "What the _fuck_ were my boxers doing on the flagpole!?"

Arthur could see Francis biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. "You said yourself last week when we were out," Even the casual fingers running through the wavy hair couldn't hide the smile, "I see London, I see Fran-"

The singsong was cut off as Arthur launched himself at Francis, tackling him to the ground. Legs on either side of his torso, hand clenched around the much-too-expensive white button shirt, Arthur glared daggers at the Frenchman, chest still heaving. "Chose your next words carefully if you value that pretty fucking face of yours."

"_S'il vous plait_," Francis groaned, shifting awkwardly, "You are not as light as you were when were you-" the words were cut off as the hands gripped his shirt tighter.

"Explain."

Holding up his hands in defeat, Francis shook his head. "Alright, alright! Alfred asked for them! Who am I to say no to a man offering two bottles of his family's winery in Napa? I may be _Français _but the Americans certainly make good wine."

Arthur dropped Francis, watching the Frenchman's head hit the ground with a soft 'thump'. "You traded my dignity for _wine_?" He spat out, getting to his feet and glaring down at him.

"Not like you haven't done it before _mon Anglais_."

Kicking Francis' side lightly, Arthur grabbed his bag, pulling it over his shoulder. "We're going to be late for class." He muttered, pulling the door to their room open, leaning against the frame, "Hurry up you great ass."

Moaning and groaning as he pulled himself to his feet, Francis seized his own bag, leather with gold accents a gift from his mother who still lived in Paris and slung it over his arm. "You are so mean _lapin_." He muttered, grabbing his school jacket and letting it hang over his back, one finger hooked around the tag.

The campus of SPQR was usually a sprawling and luscious marvel of nature. However, deep into December, it was a winter paradise, the grounds covered in fresh layers of snow every night. Since it was still rather early, most of the snow wasn't covered in trails of students winding their way to class, and Francis and Arthur didn't have much time to take in the scenery as they practically sprinted to the English building.

Inside, after a moment of shaking themselves of the cold, Arthur and Francis headed down the hallway, slipping into a large lecture that already had students milling around, lounging in chairs and discussing the weekend. The two picked their preferred seats, Francis on the aisle so that he can stretch his leg out and Arthur beside him, taking up two desks to spread out all his belongings.

As the professor started the class, he told them that it was merely going to be a work period to clean up their writing assignments. Pleased that he wasn't going to have to actually pay attention, Arthur snatched up his notebook, re-reading his essay for what felt like the dozenth time (when in reality it was probably the hundredth) while beside him, Francis leaned back, tucking his hands behind his head, yawning.

The first few minutes passed in a mild silence, a few students continuing conversation in low and hushed voices while the professor had sat down behind his desk beginning on the large pile of unmarked papers he had been putting off for a few weeks. This was Arthur's favourite place in the world to work, the quiet mutters just background and the large vents overhead rumbling as they warmed the entire school. He sat right beside one so that the warmth was gently falling from the ceiling, ruffling his hair.

Under the table, Francis' foot accidentally nudged Arthur's and, not really focusing, the Brit pulled his foot away, green eyes focused on the paper in front of his eyes, teeth clamped around the end of his pen (_Pilot G-2 0.5_) nibbling pensively. A few minutes passed again and the classroom had lapsed into silence.

Francis' foot found his again, this time leaning against Arthur's. The Englishman looked up, glaring sideways at Francis, who was silently flirting with a girl in the front row, sending her half-winks and mouthing words. Rolling his eyes, Arthur bumped his knee against Francis', withdrawing again.

There was another pause where Arthur had time to contemplate the last sentence on his essay when a hand suddenly brushed his thigh, moving to the inside for only a moment. "Francis!" Arthur yelped, grabbing the hand and forcing it away. "Per-" His voice caught on the word as he noticed that the focus of the entire class was on him. "Perversion. That's the word you're looking for." He managed to force out, returning his eyes to his paper.

Only after fifteen minutes had passed and Arthur was sure his face wasn't as bright as the devil's arse did he look up to glare at Francis. But the Frenchman had lain down on his desk, dozing quietly. Grinning, keen for a bit of revenge, Arthur gently interlocked their ankles. A blue eye peered at him.

Good, he was awake. Lifting his foot, dragging it up Francis' calf for a moment, Arthur quickly dug hid heel into the Frenchman's shoe.

Too bad Francis couldn't say that Arthur was looking for the word '_encule_'.

-_have you every thought about what protects our hearts?-_

The morning that Arthur's parents told him that Santa didn't exist; he is the tender age of eight. They sat him down, tell him it's time to have a big-boy talk. They knelt near him, father's hand on his knee, mother's arm wrapped around his tiny shoulders.

Arthur clutched his newest toy - a stuffed lion fondly named Grumbles - to his chest as his father told him that Saint Nick was merely a figure. fiction. fake. The green eyes widened but there was barely anytime for him to process this because Alfred and Matthew had stumbled into the room, obvious eavesdropping and in absolute tears.

"Go on," Arthur whispered, "I understand."

His mother squeezed his shoulders, kissing his forehead while his father ruffled his hair, calling him a brave and strong lad, before they both rushed over to their nephews, picking them up and trying to soothe them.

The next day Grumbles was gone and Arthur never spoke of the last Christmas present be received from Santa Claus.

Perhaps it was his special way of keeping the idea alive. It didn't really matter at the moment as Arthur was currently barricaded behind a snowdrift while Ludwig was bombarding him with snowballs.

"You Jerry bastard!" Arthur called, poking his head over his winter fortress long enough to fire back a large snowball and narrowly avoiding one of the German's.

It was the yearly All-Campus Snow War. Arthur's team had started out promising, comprised of Feliks, Ivan, Yao, Matthew and, as if one of them wasn't bad enough, Alfred and Francis. However, only one hour into the match and Ludwig had taken down Feliks and Francis and was currently waging snow war on Arthur. Alfred and Ivan were nowhere to be found and Matthew, while still helping as much as he could was sitting against a tree, trying to recover from a particularly well-thrown snowball from Kiku.

"Give up Kirkland!" Ludwig called back and the endless rain of snowballs stopped, "A truce between you and me! We'll take down Ivan and split the prize!"

Enraged, Arthur looked up, "Fuck you Ludwig!" He yelled, carefully packing together a snowball - Ludwig had said nothing about an official ceasefire. "You got Feliks by surprise you dirty underhanded sonofabitch!"

Even at a distance, the Brit could feel the steely glare from the blue eyes. Beside the German, Feliciano's brunet head appeared. "Ludwig! Ludwig!" He cried, pulling at his sleeve, "Kiku's attacked Alfred and now Alfred's fighting back!"

"What?" The hard gaze left Arthur for a moment and he seized his chance. Pulling his arm back, the Englishman heaved the snowball at Ludwig.

"No!" The Italian shoved the German aside and caught Arthur's snowball full on in the side of the head. He collapsed onto Ludwig while Arthur let out a great shout of delight, punching his fist into the air.

Picking up Feliciano's limp body, Ludwig hurried away. Highfiving Matthew, Arthur heaved himself over the snowdrift and almost tripped over himself as he gave chase, his cousin following behind closely.

They reached a clearing and Ludwig was on his knees, one arm supporting the Italian while the other was raised in defeat. Ivan and Alfred advanced on him, the Russian looking worse-for-wear but definitely bloodthirsty (why did he have to carry that pipe around?) while the American was carrying Kiku on his back, looking a little guilty.

"I hit him kind of hard." Alfred confessed, sliding the small man off his back into Yao's waiting arms. Once free of the burden, he walked over to Ivan, tapping fists with him before looking down at Ludwig. "Allied Force Five wins!" A cheeky grin and Alfred offered his hand, "Winners make losers hot chocolate."

Blinking in surprise, Ludwig took the hand and was pulled to his feet. While he and Alfred slung one of Feliciano's arms around their shoulders, Ivan paced away from the clearing and reached behind a bush, fishing out a trembling Prussian. "You should not hide." He sang, dragging Gilbert back.

"Let me go!" the albino whined, fighting fruitlessly.

"No, I want to have hot chocolate with you Gilly~"

Gilbert's struggles stopped as he saw Matthew watching them, his cheeks bright pink from the cold. "_Gottverdammter Wichser_." He grumbled, trying to appear a little more composed. Ludwig stumbled over and gave Gilbert's head a good whack, telling him to keep a civil tongue.

Arthur laughed, folding his arms over his chest. "Wait a second," He looked around, "Where's Francis?"

Pointing over his shoulder, Ludwig shifted Feliciano's arm. "I took him down back there." Nodding, Arthur wandered in the direction the German had pointed.

Twilight was falling on the small forest that bordered the grounds and Arthur was making sure to keep an eye out for any mythical creatures (or half-naked men running around doused in glitter) as they tended to hang around in the tightly knit and ancient trees. But instead of a magnificent unicorn or a majestic wyrm, Arthur was instead met with a Frenchman sitting against a tree.

"Thought I'd find you moping here." He said, kneeling in front of Francis and touching his face. The cheeks were almost devoid of colour and the pink lips were slightly blue. "Francis? Hello? Are you still with us?"

The cobalt eyes opened and Francis coughed slightly. "Barely…" He muttered, shifting, a few snowflakes falling from his shoulders. "Ludwig was… formidable." Arthur reached out a hand, feeling Francis' hair and then his coat. Both were soaking, faintly hard from turning to ice.

"Idiot." Arthur wrapped his arms around Francis, pulling him up to his feet. "I said you shouldn't take him on."

The Frenchman scoffed, leaning heavily on the Brit. "I 'ad to." He said stubbornly, "He insulted my pride."

"You could've run, everyone would've understood. Judging from your lineage and-" The words were cut-off as Francis' elbow drove into his side, "-shit."

"Says the one who wanted to abandon Feliks since the beginning."

"The idiot said he could take Ludwig and Gilbert on." Arthur countered, cheeks puffing out slightly.

"_Oui…_ he did say that. But unlike Feliks, I said nothing of the sort."

"You just said-"

"That I was going to take him on." The blue eyes tried to look at Arthur but the Brit was staring hard at the ground, "I was expecting help."

"You should've asked."

"I 'ave to much pride."

Arthur scoffed. "Ungrateful bastard. Was I supposed to read your mind?"

"No, you were just supposed to stay Arthur." Francis said, not a tone of blame in his voice but rather pragmatic, as if it was the most obviously thing in the world.

"But I came back for you." The Brit insisted as they exited the forest and the large and ancient buildings of the Academy came into view, "That must count for something."

A whisper of a smile. "Yes… it may count for something."

-_just a cage of rib bones and other various parts-_

Arthur joined SPQR four months into the year. It was late December as he pulled up to the school (his parents were on a business trip and were somewhere in Tibet where the chances of finding a secret temple in the mountains was higher than finding a signal), messenger bag over one shoulder, guitar case in his hand and all his papers that will let him enter clutched tightly in the other. Talking to the woman at the front desk, he found that both Matthew and Alfred had already signed in and he could go up to his own dorm room without too much hassle.

He had a roommate apparently, but Arthur didn't care. This was the best school in the country and it was somewhere he could stay with Alfred and Matthew until he came of age and was able to become their legal guardian (even if it would be only for a year). Struggling up a few flights of stairs, Arthur managed to find room 1904 with only one stitch biting his side.

Fumbling with the slightly worn key he had been given he managed to open the door to the humble room. It was empty, but obviously lived in; clothes seemed to cover everything even though the school only allowed it's uniform to be worn, dishes with remains of food sat on the small kitchen counter and papers were laid out on one of two desks in the room.

Arthur walked inside, placing his guitar and bag down on the bare bed, pushing a silky top aside. So his roommate was a bit of a pig, no big deal, one week with Arthur and the last thing the man was going to be was messy. There was a shifting behind the door Arthur suspected led to the bathroom. At least he practiced some form of hygiene.

A small frame on the side table beside the other bed caught Arthur's eye. He picked it up, staring down at it intently. There were two little boys in the picture, one substantially taller than the other with an all-too-charming smile for someone so young and was hugging the shorter one, head on the messy sandy blond hair. The short was had an angry, slightly smushed face dominated by two large… eyebrows.

Arthur reached up to touch his own brow while the door to the bathroom opened. "_Merde… c'est trop-_" Blue eyes found his and the hand stopped shaking the shoulder-length blond hair free of water. "_Arthur!?_"

"Francis?"

As Arthur uttered his name, he suddenly found himself with an armful of a wet Frenchman. "Arthur! _Mon lapin!_ I cannot believe it! It is you!" A voice squealed in his ear, hugging him tightly.

Without hesitating, Arthur returned the embrace, smiling. "You bloody git! How the fuck have you been?" He said, pulling Francis off him, taking in the tall body. At least they were the same height (when Francis had moved six years ago, he was still at least a full foot taller than Arthur) and Arthur didn't have to look up into the blue eyes. "Jesus, you haven't changed at all!"

A long finger wormed its way to Arthur's forehead, poking one of his eyebrows. "And neither have you _Sourcils_." He teased, avoiding Arthur punch narrowly, laughing. Before the Englishman could stop himself, he was chuckling along with the Frenchman, slinging an arm around his shoulder, wheezing slightly.

After a long catch-up - and _after_ Francis had put some clothes on - Arthur and Francis could be found sitting side-by-side on the Frenchman's bed, swapping stories over a bottle of bourbon Arthur had snuck in with his guitar case. "Crazy…" Arthur said for the hundredth time, "What are the odds we'd go to the same school, and get the same room no less?"

"One in a million," Francis mused, taking a quiet sip of the drink, "I missed you _Sourcils_."

"Well I kinda missed you too." The Brit yawned, leaning against Francis, buzzed out of his usually no nonsense mindset. "Guess this doesn't give me an excuse to spend Christmas alone."

Francis laughed, finishing the bottle and putting it aside. "I will cook if you get more of that booze." He wagered, turning a slightly bloodshot gaze to Arthur.

"Deal." Arthur said before curling up into a little ball and falling asleep with his head on Francis' leg.

To his great surprise, Francis actually kept his drunken promise and as the fabled day begins to roll around, Arthur finds himself walking back to the dorm, a back of bottles in one hand, his other clenched tightly around the keys that will allow him out of the frozen weather and into the warmth of their dorm.

His foot move a little faster at the thought and he soon was sliding off his coat, forcing the keys into the lock, jiggling slightly before pushing the door inside. He was immediately accosted by the most wonderful smell he can recall. Herbs, lemon and turkey permeate the hair as the overstuffed bird roasted in the oven. Francis is nowhere to be seen but Arthur can see the rest of the dinner already half-prepared.

Putting the drinks down on the small table, Arthur hurried over to the kitchen, greedily sticking his fingers in different bowls, sampling and grinning to himself. If Francis saw him doing this, he would have his head chopped clean off.

Pocket suddenly buzzing and emit a quiet riff of guitar. Wiping his hand on a cloth, Arthur reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. "Hello, Kirkland speaking… Nan? Is that you? Grandma, don't cry, I can't understan-" His voice caught. He collapsed against the wall, the phone barely staying in his hand, "Y-Yes… the hospital? Right I-I'll hurry. N-No of course I'll be careful. Right, lo-love you Gran."

When Francis arrived back later that night, it is to an empty dorm, a bag of alcohol and no explanation. When Arthur arrived back later, it is to a drunk Frenchman, a folded bag and two empty bottles. His parents are dead and Francis was yelling at him. All he could do is take it and lean against the cool window.

Francis' coat and hair felt like the glass as Arthur stripped him of the soaking clothes and rubbed a towel over his head. "Idiot." He muttered, pulling the Frenchman down into the main common room, plopping him beside the fire. "You should've called out for help, you could've frozen out there."

The Frenchman shivered, curling up onto the couch, lying on the soft cushions, moaning into them. Rolling his eyes, Arthur got to his feet. "I'm going to put these away and when I come back you better not be dead." He threatened.

Upon his return, with blanket and dry shirt in hand, Arthur did not find Francis curled up on his deathbed, but rather sitting up, Matthew sitting on one side, passing him a mug of steaming liquid. "Drink up!" He said cheerfully, "It's a special recipe, eh? And I promise it's not from Arthur's cookbook."

Francis laughed, catching Arthur's glare and grinning. "You better hide _cheri~_ your cousin does not look impressed." Matthew looked up and saw Arthur. Quickly excusing himself and placing a green mug near Francis, the Canadian walked away, taking a seat next to Gilbert, sharing a rather cosy armchair.

"I hate you." Arthur informed Francis dully, throwing the shirt at the Frenchman, sitting down on the floor, picking up the hot chocolate. He drank it despite his slightly wounded pride, finding the warm drink to be delicious as always and even had the smallest dash of rum in it. Curse that Canadian bastard for being able to melt his heart so easily.

Still chuckling, Francis pulled off his soaking shirt, folding and placing it to the side before pulling on the fresh one, humming happily. "_Merci beaucoup_~" He said, scouting to one side of the couch, but now that Arthur looked it seemed to be more like a lovesea- "Join me Arthur, and bring that warm blanket with you, would you?"

Grumbling, Arthur pulled the blanket over to the seat, flopping down. Careful to not spill the drink, Arthur unfolded the quilt and spread it over his legs but found it was big enough to reach Francis. Not keen on the Frenchman getting sick - Lord knows he would have to take care of Francis, not how he wanted to spend Winter Break - Arthur shuffled closer, still not touching Francis, but the blanket still refused to reach.

Ten more minutes of shuffling closer and closer, Arthur suddenly found himself tucked against the Frenchman's side, sipping his hot chocolate, the blanket covering them both. Francis smiled down at Arthur, reaching up an arm, laying it on the back of the couch, staring into the fire.

"Merry Christmas Eve." Arthur muttered, as the bells signalling midnight rung from the grandfather clock, closing his eyes, feeling pleasantly warm after his second mug (he would have a third but Matthew seemed rather… preoccupied with Gilbert) of hot chocolate.

Francis' arm fell from the back of the couch, hugging Arthur closer and he kissed the crown of the Englishman's head. "_La veille de Noël _indeed." He said, pulling the mug away from the loose fingers. He smiled when Arthur didn't shrug the arm off.

-_so it's fairly simple to cut right through the mess-_

The next year of Christmas was perfect and picturesque. Too bad Arthur was stuck inside so he can't see it save for the sliver between the curtains that hang in the window of his doctor's office. He was lying down on the couch, staring at the roof as Doctor Edelstein's pen scribbled against the paper.

"I'm sorry for bringing you in on Christmas Day." Arthur said, counting the knots in the wood of the ceiling. 23. As usual. "But… it's only been a year and it h-happened around this-"

The Austrian's purple eyes flicked up from the paper. "It's fine Arthur." He said, stern, but still kind. "But I think that's all the time I have for today, so if you'll excuse me." He got to his feet, tossing the sheet aside and fiddling with his glasses.

Sitting up and rubbing his face tiredly, Arthur smiled up at his doctor. "Surely you're not going out wassailing…" He said with a smirk, eyebrows wiggling slightly. He enjoyed bothering the man and Edelstein seemed able to take quite a verbal beating, delivering his own comebacks without batting an eyelash.

"I'm not going out drinki-" The doctor started, but Arthur quickly cut across him.

"It means carolling. But I'd be surprised for either."

Roderich shuffled a few papers on his desk, slipping them into a leather briefcase, snapping it shut. "I'm having dinner with my wife." He said, straightening and pulling his jacket off the back of his chair, pulling it on.

"Oh, well…" Arthur considered making a crude joke but couldn't bring himself to. He had met the doctor's wife right before his second session and the woman had proceeded to coddle him and within the week had sent over cookies - much to a slightly-jealous Francis' outrage as Arthur refused to tell - "Enjoy, and tell her I say hello."

Nodding, the doctor began to usher Arthur out of his office. The halls and other offices were empty so that only a quiet florescent light illuminated them. Closing and locking the door, the Austrian tipped his head. "Happy Holidays Arthur."

"Thanks Edelstein." The Brit said, pulling his coat a little tighter around him as he watched the doctor climb into his car and drive away. Sighing as he watched the doctor's headlight disappear, leaving him in the muted light of the clouded moon, Arthur started down the road. A soft orange light spilled from lampposts, illuminating the snow drifting from the sky. Here he was, Christmas night, alone. He chuckled; Francis was going to kill him for skipping out on a dinner for the second year in a row. And he wasn't about to tell the Frenchman he was seeing a shrink, he was too proud.

A car drove by him and then suddenly stopped. Arthur looked up, frowning. Maybe they were lost? The driver's door opened and Francis stepped out, staring at Arthur looking severely unimpressed. "I was wondering where you had gone." He said, voice hurt and Arthur noticed that he wasn't wearing a coat, "Care to explain?"

"No."

"Do you want a ride home?"

"Yes."

"Then explain. In fact, _A__rthur_, why don't you explain where you have disappeared off to every other weekend?!" Francis' voice echoed like a whip in the crisp and silent night air, "I worry about you _Sourcils_ and yet you say nothing to me about anything! We may be roommates but we 'ave not had a real talk since we were children!"

So Arthur told him. Told him that he was seeing a doctor. Told him that he wasn't coping well. Told him that he wasn't sure that he couldn't handle much more. Francis could only stare at him before speaking in a much calmer and quieter voice, "I just though you didn't want to spend Noël with me." Francis said, walking over to Arthur and gently hugging him. Around them, the snow muffled them, preserving the silence.

But that was far from true. Arthur wanted to spend Christmas with Francis. He had since they had first reunited and this year (not that he had much choice as it was their last year) he was going to do it. Planning at least a full two months in advance, Arthur had made sure both their schedules were clear and had ordered in the food - Francis still refused to eat his cooking.

Setting the small table and fixing the plates with turkey and whatever else on the takeout menu had looked good, Arthur stood back, folding his arms over his chest, nodding to himself. It looked perfect, but there was still one thing missing.

As if on cue, his phone rang. "Alfred?" Arthur said, glancing at the caller ID before slipping it open, "You still keeping an eye on Francis like I asked? You can bring him back now you know."

Alfred voice came back over the phone, all at once thrilled and terrified. "A-Arthur…" He stammered, "You better get out here… like, right now."

A minute later Arthur was outside and looking up, not quite believing his eyes. Francis was up on the roof of their two-story building, dressed as a rather _risqué_ Santa as he attempted to haul himself to his feet.

"OY!" Arthur called, cupping his hands around his mouth, "Francis?! What the fuck are you doing up there?!"

The blue eyes looking down and the Frenchman waved slightly. "I am showing you that Santa really does exist!" The small crowd that had gathered laughed slightly, all shooting covert glances at Arthur who ignored them, "Just watch _cher Sourcils_!" Taking a firm handle of a large bag in one and an antenna in the other, Francis struggled to his feet. He stood for a moment, grinning down at the crowd who all started clapping and whistling.

But, after taking one tentative step, the Frenchman's foot slipped and he slid off the roof. Arthur blinked. Francis was suddenly in a snowdrift, a few feet away from Arthur not moving.

Merry Christmas indeed.

-_and to stop the muscle that makes us confess-_

Francis woke up late Christmas day with a pain in his head almost matching the one in his legs. He opened his eyes, trying to move but found his body to heavy with drugs and sleep that he merely lays there for a moment trying to figure out where his fingers end and his knees start.

Finally managing to coordinate opening his eyes, Francis stared around the slightly dark room. He tried to move again but found his legs seemed pinned to the bed and he looked down. An Englishman was lying on bed, sleeping quietly, his hands scrunched into the sheets. His weight was keeping them tight.

"Arthur…" The Frenchman said, shaking his head before reaching out a tired hand, touching his roommate's shoulder, "Kirkland… _cher_, get up."

There is a grumble and Arthur picked himself off Francis' leg, a small spot of drool on the blanket exactly where his mouth was. "Wha-?" He questioned, stretching and then looking at Francis, "Oh shit… you aren't dead."

"Don't sound so disappointed." Francis said, leaning back into his pillows, smiling.

"I'm not." Arthur said, "I'm just surprised. We thought you broke your neck. What the hell were you doing up there anyway?"

"I was saving Christmas." Francis said, holding his chin up, "You seem to believe in Santa and I thought it was time to reveal my identity. I am Santa."

"And I'm the Queen of England."

"Well," The Frenchman laughed, "I am honoured Your Majesty had the time out of her busy schedule to come and visit the bedside of a wounded Frenchmen."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur leaned back in his chair, staring at Francis. He was lucky. Beyond lucky. The odds of the fall not killing him were next to impossible but leave it to Francis to pull the luck right out of his pansy French ass and merely get off with a sprain ankle and a mild concussion instead of dead.

"You seem preoccupied _Sourcils_." Francis observed.

Arthur spoke before thinking. He made a note to put that down as one of his Resolutions. "Just mourning the fact that I'm spending Christmas holed up in a hospital with you."

Sitting up, Francis looked around the room with purpose. "They brought my bag, _oui_?" He asked, spotting his Santa outfit draped over a chair in the corner, "Open it, there should be a gift for you."

After rummaging through the bag for a few moments, snorting at the meticulous wrapping job each present has - Arthur had long abandoned wrapping after going through a roll of scotch tape as he tried to cover a book - the Brit pulled out an oddly lumpy package with his name on it. "Is this it?" He asked, holding up the gift and when Francis nodded he brought it back to the Frenchman's bedside.

"Go on," Francis said, almost bouncing with excitement, "Open it!"

Arthur immediately started giving Francis a talking to as his fingers tore at the bauble-themed paper, "I thought we agreed we weren't getting each other anything…" Francis shrugged his shoulders and Arthur sighed, looking down into his lap at the gift.

A small stuffed lion sat amid the shreds of paper. "Grumbles?" Arthur said, picking up the small memory with a trembling hand. It was a little worn but the patchwork was just as he remembered and the fleece mane was well kept. "How did you know?"

"Well, I did never receive that wine from Alfred." Arthur nodded silently, staring down at the small lion in his hands, letting fingers run over the familiar and memory-filled material. For a second, Arthur's hand came up to his eyes, rubbing slightly. Out of respect, Francis averted his eyes, looking up. He frowned. "Is that… mistletoe?"

Arthur head snapped up and the large eyebrows contracted. "Oh haha," He said, lowering his green gaze to glare at Francis, "There's nothi-"

The words are cut-off as Francis kissed him. Against the window, snow fell lightly. Out in the hallway a sick child is finally let out of the hospital. In the surgery room, a doctor finished a procedure, saving another life. And back in Francis' room, Arthur's fingered tightened around Grumbles as he started to close his eyes-

"_Joyeux Noël_ _Soucils_." Francis whispered against the Arthur's lips, withdrawing slightly.

"Git." Said Englishman's lips twitched into a smirk, closing the distance between them.

-_and we are so fragile-_


End file.
